


647

by Psychicsniper



Category: Almost Human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:11:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psychicsniper/pseuds/Psychicsniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! This is my first Ao3 post. So please be gentle. Hope you like it. :)</p>
    </blockquote>





	647

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first Ao3 post. So please be gentle. Hope you like it. :)

The first time he got shot was the first time I saw him without his shirt on. They were doing some repairs on his chest plate. The dents caused by the shockwave of the large caliber round that just barely scraped the right side of his chest made me cringe. At least he could be repaired. They installed his new chest plate, and I was in awe. He was pure perfection. With his new chest plate and a quick clean up of residue from the surrounding synthetic skin, his fair skin was absolutely flawless. Abdominals, pectorals, biceps, triceps, deltoids; all perfectly sculpted as if made from marble. 

Why can’t my boyfriend look like that?

I think I stared a little too intently, as he was putting on his shirt with “MX-43” printed in white letters across his chest, because he looked at me with his metallic eyes and asked, “Detective Callaghan, can I assist you?”  
“No, end of watch is in five minutes…”  
“Detective Callaghan, end of watch is in 21 minutes 35 seconds,” he interrupted.  
I sighed. “Go charge, 647. I’ll see you tomorrow.”  
The technician looked at me oddly. “I was just checking up on him,” I said.  
He awkwardly gathered up his tools, “Have a good night, detective.”

Great. He thinks I’m a creep.

I chose 647 all the time, even though I’m aware that all MX-43 androids are the same. I guess having a consistent partner is a little more comforting. I call him by his number. Though I know he is always listening, and knows when I’m talking to him, it seems more polite to address him before asking him to help me gather evidence from a scene. And I always say please. 

647 was considerably taller than I am. The top of my head was barely up to his shoulders. It is something my colleagues still crack jokes about. Especially when they put things I needed on the top shelf, things like my service weapon, or my car keys. 647 would pluck them off the top shelf while I would glare at my colleagues, who couldn’t breathe because they were laughing so hard. 647 would stare at them blankly, no doubt trying to determine if he should alert emergency medical services. 

The second and last time he was shot, I had to contain myself on scene. I’ve worked homicide for about six years, and before that I worked patrol on one of the freeways in the city. I’ve seen dead bodies. Those clearly dead bodies. The ones that give you nightmares at night. Like the bodies in so many pieces that we had to shut down the freeway to retrieve all the parts. Skulls smashed in and faces removed, thanks to a sudden collision at a high speed with the pavement. I’ve seen more blood, exposed bones and brain matter than many people have, but none of those images of gore managed to break my heart as much as seeing the face of my partner. There were three soccer ball-sized holes in 647. One was in his face; it took off a good portion of the right side. The side of his face that wasn’t damaged still had remnants of his blonde eyebrow. Sometimes when MXs get shot in the head, their eyes close. His one remaining eye didn’t. It was stuck open, staring directly into the cloudy sky above. I didn’t realize his stare could get any more lifeless. The other holes were in his chest and abdomen. The number on the left side of his tactical vest was vaporized, and I could see the ground through the gaping hole. The technician mentioned something about having to make two trips with “this one”, indicating to the hole in 647’s abdomen that nearly bisected him. As they attempted to move his limp body off the ground, there came a sickening popping noise as the synthetic epidermis began to snap under the stress of still being attached to his legs, which were no longer attached to him. His next stop: Droidax.  
A detective in my division put his hand on my shoulder and asked, “You okay?”  
I didn’t have a scratch on me, thanks for 647.  
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I replied, not taking my eyes off of 647.  
I think he sensed how upset I was. “That MX did his job. You’re safe because of him.”

They sent me home after what felt like years of filling out reports. Apparently when the memory of an MX is deemed unusable, then they go back to the good old-fashioned reports. I could probably recite my statement in my sleep.

I could barely contain my tears as I walked into my apartment. I shut and locked the door behind me, fell to my knees, and cried. Not for me, I was fine. For 647. I had him with me as my constant companion since the MX requirement came into effect. I missed him.

After 647, I had 302 for a while. Until I took a few days of personal time, only to find out a detective from Delta Division got him. Apparently 302 only assisted the detective for about 4 hours until another detective from Delta Division shot him in the face at close range. Douche. I’ve heard that he pushed an MX out of a car. Its purely scuttlebutt, but I wouldn’t be surprised at all if it was true. That douche detective has a DRN. Part of me can’t wait until I hear the news of his DRN going psycho on him. 

The detective who used 302 that morning apparently orders his MXs to get him coffee. Coffee. With two sugars, apparently. The MXs are police officers, not coffee makers. Double Douche, two sugars.

The MXs protect us; the least we could do is show them some respect. 

Now I have 819. Fair-skinned, metallic-eyed, the same as the last two partners I had. Still has to get things off the top shelf for me. Still reminds me that I cannot leave half an hour before end of watch.

The one thing I couldn’t get out of my head when 647 was being taken away, was his eye. It was open, but there was something missing. Not anything physical. It reminded me of one night when on patrol I was called out to an accident. This poor girl, probably no more than 19 years old was lying on the ground. Her chest was completely crushed. Blood was pouring from her mouth. She couldn’t stop coughing. She had seconds, maybe a minute at most, so I knelt beside her and gathered her in my arms. I told her it was all going to be all right. In the light from the headlights on my patrol car, I knelt with her while she took her last agonizing wet breath. When I felt her stop breathing, I looked at her face. The tell tale dilation of the pupils told me all I needed to know. Her eyes were so different after she died. It was something I just couldn’t place. 647’s eyes were like hers.

I know it makes no sense, because I know they are androids. They aren’t human, at all.  
But I can’t help but think why were their eyes the same?


End file.
